Trust Is A Most Beautiful Thing
by DogwoodsAndBluebells
Summary: Natasha was not expecting to be trusted – it would be the epitome of foolishness, after all. She was the most lethal thing to ever enter SHIELD, someone who did not trust her new employers as much as they did not trust her. Trust was an ephemeral thing that was merely reciprocated, not freely given. Rated for language.


Summary: Natasha was not expecting to be trusted – it would be the epitome of foolishness, after all. She was the most lethal thing to ever enter SHIELD, someone who did not trust her new employers as much as they did not trust her. Trust was an ephemeral thing that was merely reciprocated, not freely given. Someone should tell Agent Barton that. Rated for language.

**Disclaimer: Not mine.**

* * *

Trust Is A Most Beautiful Thing

* * *

_The only way to make a man trustworthy is to trust him.  
- Henry L. Stimson_

* * *

_Training - Two Weeks after Recruitment_

"Hey Babushka!"

Coulson sighed softly in exasperation. He glanced over as Natasha slowly faced Barton, her eyes narrowed. Jogging down the hall, Barton caught up to the pair, smiling unrepentantly at the assassin in response to her scowl.

"Do you have a purpose to this interruption?" Coulson asked lightly, a hint of reprimand in his tone. "Other than merely to annoy me, of course."

"Annoying you is one of my more cherished pastimes," Barton countered, crossing his arms. They spoke with the ease of two men who were not only colleagues, but friends. Natasha bit back a snort of disgust at the thought. Friends, like emotions, were a liability. Snapping out of her momentary reverie, she picked up on the tail end of what the sniper was saying. "What I'm really after is a sparring partner."

Had she been trained to be anything less than what she was, she might have gaped at the idiot man grinning at her. As it stood, she was fairly certain the implacable agent escorting her _was_ gaping at him.

Raising a cool brow at the arrogant Barton, she let her words purr. "You wish me to spar with you?"

"Yeah," he replied easily, giving no indication that this was, in any way, the least intelligent plan of all time. "My usual partner is out on a mission and who better to replace him?"

He was goading her, she knew, and the only satisfaction she allowed him was the flash of her eyes. "Because I am better than you?"

Barton's lips quirked in the beginnings of a grin. "Let's remember who won in Prague three weeks ago."  
Coulson made an inarticulate noise in the back of throat, a gesture that, for the reserved man, was equivalent to throwing his hands in the air as he walked off and left her in Barton's care.

She sniffed, tossing her curls over her shoulder as she turned in the direction of the training facilities. "I was drugged. It does not count."

"Details, darlin'," he returned laughingly, an easy grin on his face.

Natasha studied him surreptitiously as they walked. SHIELD was not so foolhardy as to trust her, one of the numerous reasons why her every movement on base was done with an escort. The other agents treated her with a healthy dose of fear and avoidance, with the exception of the always polite Coulson and unreadable Director Fury. It was almost enough to garner her respect, but in the end, she could not respect a person's basic instinct for survival, which was clearly something that her new partner did not seem to possess.

Arriving at the gym, she shook the thoughts from her head and followed Barton to a large area, covered with training mats. There were few souls in the room, congregated near the boxing ring as two younger agents sparred. Barton watched them for a moment and Natasha took the opportunity to attack.

He saw her leap into motion in his periphery and narrowly dodged her punch. Twisting his body, he countered, aiming for where her face should have been, but she was already on the move. He was quick, but ultimately, not a challenge, and she was appalled with herself for failing on their first encounter.

Flipping him neatly on to his back, she slid the dagger from her boot and pressed against his throat. "I cannot believe you were successful in Prague," she hissed, seething.

His eyes glittered with mirth. "Drugs, remember?"

She snorted, removing the knife to the palpable relief of the gym's other occupants, who had abandoned the boxing match to watch the assassin and her new partner.

Barton popped up from the ground as she sheathed her knife. "Again?"

She could not restrain her incredulity. "Are you joking?"

He laughed, a deep, rich sound, and shook his head. "Come on," he reiterated, motioning her forward. "Let's go."

He was not visibly tired, though she had not held back in the first round. The lines around his eyes attested to the pain he was masking, but she could respect his wishes. Nodding once as a warning, she attacked again, her intent simply to teach. She ducked and wove around him, landing soft blows that were meant to indicate just how much damage she could truly do, rather than actually incapacitate him.

When he faltered, she dropped him to his back with ease, one lithe forearm across his windpipe as he gulped in air. She narrowed her eyes at him. "I could kill you," she whispered softly. "A thousand different ways before one person in this room could stop me."

"You won't." He spoke with a confidence that was as irritating as it was amusing.

She huffed, blowing one stray curl from her face. "How do you know?"

Without warning, he tensed and she was suddenly on her back, staring up at him with something that could eventually become respect in her eyes. He grinned down at her.

"I just do."

* * *

_Staff Briefing - Three Months after Recruitment  
_  
There was the sound of a suppressed gunshot and crimson splattered the impeccable halls of headquarters. The victim, a recent addition to the force, looked down at the scarlet blossoming across his uniform and passed out.

Natasha rolled her eyes at the cadet, who was successfully being roused by his friends, and glanced upwards. Headquarters had been dealing with a resident prankster for a few days, and it seemed that the pranks had escalated from the relatively tame salt in the sugar bowls to paintballing unsuspecting agents that roamed the halls. Fury had, of course, called for immediate cessation of hostilities, but the prankster had only increased the number of attacks in response.

While the entire situation was foreign to her, Natasha couldn't help but be somewhat entertained. She was allowed to move along without an armed escort breathing down her neck, but she was not yet allowed out on missions, so this was a rather welcomed diversion. As a result of her confinement, Barton was also restricted to headquarters on inactive duty, acting as her large and irritating shadow, and she had a feeling that this was what had prompted The Great Prank War.

Thinking on it, there was no other option for the assailant than Barton. The prankster was never seen, never heard, and the only ones yet to be victimized were Director Fury, Agent Coulson, and herself. In a clever diversion, Barton had even hit himself a few times to throw off anyone's assumptions that he could be the one behind the pranks.

Natasha knew better.

Knocking lightly on Director Fury's door, she waited for permission before slipping quietly inside. Fury and Coulson were inside waiting for her. Remaining silent, she simply waited for them to initiate the conversation.

"I'm sure you've noticed the recent string of practical jokes on base," Fury began calmly, though Natasha detected a slight twitching in the veins of his neck. Swallowing a smirk at his discomfort, she merely raised a brow and nodded. "So, who is it?"

She blinked at him in bemusement. "Excuse me?"

"What Director Fury is trying to say," Coulson interjected patiently when Fury began to bristle with frustration. "Is that you are a world renowned spy. If anyone has figured out the identity of the prankster, it's you. Is there anyone you suspect?"

There was a split second of hesitation, which she hid flawlessly behind the appearance of thinking, where she nearly outed Barton, but something held her tongue. Instead, she shook her head, curls bouncing around her face.

"I haven't been a target," she pointed out, lies flowing seamlessly from her lips. "So I haven't really given it much thought."

Fury eyed her incredulously and she met his gaze without flinching. "Well why don't you think about it," he drawled lazily, clearing disbelieving her and choosing not to press the issue. "Let me know when you come up with something."

Nodding in response, she exited quickly and returned to her rooms. No sooner had she shut the door when the air vent in her ceiling popped open and Barton dropped lightly onto her floor, swiftly blocking her initial attack and using his heavier weight to subdue her.

"Hi," he grinned at her deepening scowl. Growling, she flipped him off of her and whirled to face him.

"I will shoot you one day," she promised flatly, flicking her eyes upwards at the open vent. The pieces in her brain clicked and she speared him with a suspicious glare. "Is that how you've been pranking everyone?"

His eyes flashed. "So you knew it was me," he stated something indefinable in his gaze.

She reared back, disbelieving. "You were spying on the meeting?"

He rolled his eyes impatiently at her as he crossed his arms. "After three months with me as your partner, this should not surprise you."

"And yet somehow, it still does," she snapped back, hands on her hips. In a show of pure Americanism, rather than back down in the face of her anger, his lips crooked upwards in a grin.

"Don't be jealous that I'm having fun," he teased, stepping back and linking his fingers together to give her a leg up. "Want to join?"

She frowned at him for a moment. "No," she finally replied and tried to ignore the disappointment that darted across his face. Cursing herself for her growing weakness, she added, "But I will take a tour of the vents." Grinning, he boosted her into the opening. Dropping back through the hole, she cocked her head questioningly at him.

"You knew that I knew," she accused. "There was no way you couldn't have."

He looked up at her, one eyebrow raised in an arch expression. "So?"

She wrinkled her nose in distaste at his cavalier attitude. "How could you be sure that I wouldn't turn you in?"

He blinked at her in bemusement. "Because," he said slowly, in a tone of voice that clearly indicated he didn't know why they were discussing the topic. "You're my partner. You have my back."

Something about his answer unnerved her, but she made no reply, simply scooting back, giving him room to pull himself into the ventilation shaft.

* * *

_South Africa - Six Months after Recruitment, Third Mission  
_  
The safehouse in Johannesburg was little more than a shack, but it was better than the savannah. She could make due, she decided, looking around the room. Her partner, on the other hand, might not.

"Just once," he complained. "I want a safehouse that isn't a complete shithole."

She frowned at him, but silently agreed. It had been a tough mission, involving slave trafficking and child soldiers, that they completed with less finesse than either would have liked. Natasha had quickly learned that Barton had zero tolerance for oppression of any kind (how positively American of him), but that he had a rather large soft spot for children. They had worked smoothly together, once he realized she did not take orders, but the circumstances were not conducive to a clean exit.

She peeked out of the window into the dim light of the single street lamp. "One of us should keep watch," she commented, letting the thin curtain fall back into place.

"Go for it," he muttered. She turned to find him placing his bow on the floor and flopping backwards onto the ancient mattress. "Wake me when you get tired."

She watched with a sense of sick fascination as he proceeded to fall immediately to sleep. Shaking her head, she settled more comfortably by the window, keeping an eye on the street.

After a few hours, her eyelids itched and she was beginning to yawn more frequently. Deciding that Barton had had enough sleep, she moved to rouse him. He had shifted so that he was sprawled on his back, arms and legs akimbo. Involuntarily, Natasha began cycling through elimination methods, beginning with the least messy and fastest, working her way up. Her tired brain flashed through ways to kill her partner while he lay, completely vulnerable, as she tried desperately to reconcile the implications of the unconscious message of his position.

She wasn't so foolish as to believe that he was a deep sleeper, but the fact that he could fall asleep under the watchful eye of an assassin of her caliber was unnerving at best. Aware that she would not be able to reciprocate and sleep while he kept watch, Natasha simply sat back down at her post by the window and let him rest.

* * *

_Indonesia - Ten and One Half Months after Recruitment, Thirty Fourth Mission  
_  
Natasha watched with carefully veiled concern as Barton stealthily crossed the rooftop and slipped into the building's ventilation system. Barton was doing all the heavy lifting on this mission, which irked her more than she cared to admit. Coulson had tried to gently console her over the comms, but she had finally switched them off, choosing to wait for Barton's exit in silence. It took him twice the time it would have taken her, but he emerged triumphantly and settled himself on the motorcycle behind her.

"Finished?" She tried not to let her relief at his appearance show. He raised his brows at her.

"Well no," he drawled, sarcasm dripping from his words. "I got bored halfway through and decided to just fuck it."

She rolled her eyes at him, knowing he couldn't see her, but started the engine anyway. She was about to pop the clutch when the shots rang out and Barton curved his spine around her, taking control of the bike. He steered them away from the gunfire and towards the ocean, glancing back a few times. Natasha finally wrested control of the bike away from him, glaring over her shoulder. He ignored her, saying something that was lost in the whipping wind. She shook her head, refocusing on the road, and nearly crashed when he tapped a roughened palm against her hip to get her attention. Leaning forward, he hit the brakes and hopped off the slowing bike.

"What are you doing?" She turned the bike in a circle, staring incredulously at him.

He pulled his bow case from her backpack and opened it, pulling out the weapon and his quiver. He glanced up at her, his brows lightly furrowed. "They're still coming, Babushka," he told her, grinning slightly when she growled at his favorite nickname. "You're bait, so lead the six of them on a merry chase and let me pick them off as they come by. Then circle around to get me."

Feeling petulant and irritated and something that she desperately did not want to define, she snarled. "This is risky. You are exposed." She narrowed her eyes at him. "How do you know I won't leave you and tell SHIELD you were killed?"

The look on his face was familiar, as if he still couldn't quite believe that they were having this conversation. The sound of engines approaching halted any response he had. Slapping his quiver across his back, he hopped backwards into the shadows. "Just do what I told you, for once," he snapped uncharacteristically, concealing himself.

Clenching her jaw, Natasha hit the accelerator and spun away, drawing their pursuers' attention. She couldn't hear the _thwock_ as the arrows hit home, but when she turned around, she was being followed by two instead of six. Circling around, she pulled out two knives from her boot and quickly sank one home in the chest of one pursuer as the other tumbled off his motorcycle with an arrow shaft in his back.

Picking up his arrows as she returned, she coasted to a stop where she'd left Barton. He emerged from the shadows, smiling. "See?" Natasha snapped to attention. His voice was breathy, weak, and he was clutching at his hip. He gulped in a little air, wetting his lips as he continued, "I knew you wouldn't leave me."

And promptly passed out.

* * *

_Indonesia - Ten and One Half Months after Recruitment, Thirty Fourth Mission  
_  
He was crazy. Barton was crazy and stupid and bleeding all over everything and the idiot had the nerve to grin up at her like it was still The Great Prank War. Natasha was distinctly not amused.

"What the hell were you thinking?"

He scoffed at her, rolling his eyes. "Look, it might not have been the best plan ever." She snorted angrily, and settled for slicing his pants off rather than waiting for him to undress. He raised a brow at her forwardness, but said nothing when she glared at him. "But, it worked."

"You have been shot, you ridiculous fool," she countered, shoving him back onto the bed.

He raised a finger, still smiling goofily. "But we got the intel."

She rolled her eyes at him and settled for removing the bullet from his body. She cleaned the wound, which was not as bad as she'd thought, even if it would make walking to the rendezvous difficult in the morning. Barton had grown quiet as she worked, and when she finally looked up at him, he was watching her intently.

Instantly uncomfortable, she frowned. "What?"

"Why you keep threatening to leave me?"

Natasha immediately dropped her gaze, smoothing over the last piece of gauze. "I have been fine on my own for many years," she reminded him. "I do not need this place or their protection."

He placed his hand over hers, effectively rooting her in place. "It's not just that," he whispered, and she knew it was true. However, knowing that something was true did not mean that she was willing to talk to Barton about it.

"Why do you insist on," she pulled her hand from beneath his and waved it vaguely in the air, trying to gather her thoughts. Barton arched his brows at her.

"Trusting you?"

"_Yes._" More emotion seeped into her voice than she'd cared to admit, but Natasha was more concerned with getting answers to her questions than anything else. As a trained assassin, living in the company of trained assassins all her life, she'd come to expect mistrust. Mistrust was instinctual, something that kept you alive when others were not so fortunate. Mistrust was ingrained, and Barton had no concept of that fact.

He smiled down at her, quirking his lips. "If you show a man trust, he becomes trustworthy," he said gently. "I'm paraphrasing, of course, but you get the jist of it. It's why I do what I do."

She nodded, biting back her surprise. "Why didn't you kill me in Prague?" The words were blurted out before she'd even had the chance to think about them. She silently cursed herself – the Americans were making her soft.

His eyes flashed as he leaned back against the wall, sitting sideways across the bed to face her. "I was wondering when you were going to get to that," he commented nonchalantly. Grinning devilishly at her, he lowered his voice conspiratorially. "You were too pretty to kill, darlin'."

She rolled her eyes at him, clenching her fist to keep herself from breaking his nose. "Asshole."

His grin merely widened. Seeing her frustration, he sobered. "It's true that I don't like getting blood on my gear that isn't mine," he began cautiously, waiting until she faced him to continue. "But the truth of it is, you had a look in your eye that I've seen before. Fuck, I've had it before, when there's no way out but what you're doing is kind of killing you inside. You didn't know it was there, but I did. And Coulson offered me a clean slate when I was in that position. I thought I should pass on the favor." She stared at him, scrutinizing his face, somehow wanting to believe him, when his eyes suddenly warmed. "Plus, you really were hot in that slinky little cocktail dress. It would have been such a waste."

"I hope your wound grows septic," she growled lightly in return, laughter in her eyes. "Now sleep, idiot. I'll keep watch." He smiled sincerely, and it was almost enough to make her blush with discomfort.

"I know you will."

* * *

_Russia – Twelve Months after Recruitment, Fortieth Mission_

"It was called the Red Room."

Clint glanced over at Natasha, eying the rapidly diminishing level of the vodka in the bottle she was clutching. Their safehouse might still be a shithole, but it was warm enough and they had liquor, so he supposed he couldn't complain. She certainly wasn't, and wouldn't be, if the death grip she had on the vodka said anything about it.

"I was taken," she continued quietly, keeping her eyes averted. "As a small girl, four or five, and broken." She looked up at him then, her gaze brittle and hard at the same time. "You must first be broken before you can be remade, you know."

Clint crossed the room then, and settled himself next to her, wrapping one arm around her shoulders. It was a testament to how far she had come in their relationship that she didn't immediately hit him. Instead, she leaned into his side, curling herself as small as she could.

He listened as she told him her secrets. About her training, the things that had been done to her, that she had done to others, as she continued to drink her way through the bottle of vodka. Her Russian accent became more and more pronounced with each sip and as she drained the last of the bottle, it was so thick that he could barely understand her.

"You are a good man, Barton," she whispered to his chest, the bottle falling to the floor with a soft clink as she wrapped her arms around him. Rubbing her nose in his shirt, she looked up suddenly. "You will keep watch, yes?"

He hugged her tighter as she laid her head back down. "I'll keep watch."

_Fin._


End file.
